Jalapeno Bootyhole and I walked out of the mall together and into a swelteringly hot street full of people who smelled of suntan lotion, incense and marijuana. JB must have smelled it, too, as the first thing he asked me during our time was, “Hey, do you know where I can find some weed and booze?” I mumbled something about not knowing but expecting to find alcohol somewhere ahead, trying to continue the charade of actually knowing where the **** I was. He seemed at least temporarily pacified by my answer, but then asked another.

“Ah. Well, how about some hookers? … Gay… ones?” He looked me in the eye, seeming to probe for my reaction. I stared back blankly. Quickly, he interjected. “Ha ha ha,” he nervously laughed, aggressively (or so I hope to this moment) patting me on the shoulder. “just jokin’! So, this art is pretty nice stuff, eh?”

JB and I walked slowly down a straight urban avenue lined on both sides by white tents containing various overweight and/or overly-mustachioed artists and their work. I made small-talk as we walked, and he generally replied with all sorts of completely uninteresting stories of his experience being in the area, of the Beatnik Smackdown (he could not shut up about this, and I wished I’d come up with a better, less-lame topic with which to start our encounter), being in Canada, etc.

We both variously pretended to have an opinion of some of the art on exhibition as we walked along, eventually getting to the end of one end of the street on which the Art Fair was laid out. We looked around, a bit bewildered by the abrupt end of the exhibits. I, however, had to pretend I knew what I was doing, so simply said, “I’m hungry.” Well, I was. I’m a big man, damnit, and I like my food. Luckily, JB was, too. He again asked where weed and booze might be, but this time also commented about wanting food.

As we turned to go back down the street from which we came, JB spotted a stand called “Simply Nuts and More,” and seemed drawn to it. I presumed he was drawn to the presence of the word “Nuts,” and was proved correct after he purchased a large handful of what he called “Pray Lines,” which I knew as “Prayleens.” I made a mental note to call him an idiot for that later, but ended up much chagrined by learning that it’s actually pronounced “Prah Leen.” **** us both. Anyway, he quickly told an anecdote about how a friend had told him to eat his nuts. The man wasn’t even trying to hide his tendencies, and I was, to him, a total stranger! Damning evidence.

We made our way back to our starting point, now both sweating from the urban heat: me from being husky and plump in the hot weather, he, probably, from being around what seemed like an endless flow of obviously homosexual men in the crowd.

We pretended to like yet more art, and walked some more. Once, JB asked permission to pop into a spice store, explaining that he had to bring home, to Canada, some gifts for his “friends.” Of course, he came out with nothing.